


out

by hapful



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, a bit of violence, amnesia stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7366105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapful/pseuds/hapful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This isn't Columbia,</i> yeah, that's what Andrew thinks as the world flips upside down.</p>
<p>stan gets a little mixed up with his old identities when his mind is fixing itself. ford tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cakepann](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cakepann).



_This isn't Columbia,_ yeah, that's what Andrew thinks as the world flips upside down.

Literally, actually, because there was footsteps behind him and Andrew, Eight-Ball to his (ha) "friends," knows a hell of a lot better than to let anyone come through that door right now. He's not sure why, lots of whys like _why_ is he here and _why_ does he ache and _why_ is here not **there** , probably with a capital T. There. The slammer, cold nights, chewing his own tongue against shit like _hunger_ and _lonely_ and _quiet_ and _p a i n._ Capital P.

He's got a bit of that Pain now, shooting up his arm and yeah, right, he's scrambling with the guy that came through the door all willy nilly in this weird little cottage. If he's suddenly _here_ and not There then it's like... it's like something went wrong, someone wanted him out and must have knocked him out and now he's _out_ , right? But the thing is Andrew here, he might have a shoddy memory leaking like an old, drafty boat but he _knows_ there ain't anyone out there who wants him out for his own good health. There ain't a single soul who would want him out for anything other than some nasty, Painful with a damn capital P revenge.

The guy, probably a goon but with a head of hair like slate and really, okay, they're sending _senior citizens_ after him now? The guy though, right, he doesn't take kindly to Andrew grabbing him from behind, to Andrew locking his arm around the old goon's neck and _squeezing_. The guy, ha, well he must be good to get into a damn Columbian prison and drag someone out, and maybe he proves it by instantly throwing his head back, slamming it against Andrew's nose like it's as natural as breathing. 

Thunk, crunch, that's a little like the soundtrack. Andrew would spit out a curse about how the old fucker's not bad if blood wasn't pouring down his face.

If the world wasn't turning upside down and he was on the floor, the old goon's eyes sharp and tight as the hand at Andrew's neck and

and suddenly shattered, like fucking glass, torn through with confusion. "St-"

Andrew doesn't give him a chance, slams his foot into the guy's stomach and watches all the breath leave him, watches him crumple and Andrew, he thinks _fucker deserved it_ he scuttles back away from the old man, pulling himself up and thinks _he looks kinda like_

_he looks kinda like_

_he looks_

Andrew could run, but he doesn't know what's out there. More guys, more fucking _Columbia_ , more unknowns and he's a helpless, bleeding fucking lamb with sharks in the water smelling for blood. So he's _out_ , out of a frying pan and into a fire but maybe he'd kind of rather burn to ash than end up someone's meal. _No going back, not going back, fucking no way I can't I can't_ but the thing is he can't really remember why, right? That might be weird, and the old guy kind of looks like

"St-" The man's breathless and Andrew's on him, slamming his head into the ground, trying to pin him before he can get up again. The old goon does nothing so that's weird, right? He doesn't lift a hand, or try to flip them, he just keeps trying to catch his breath like he has something important to say and Andrew's like... he's not a fucking moron. He _is_ a moron, ok, he remembers that in his bones, deeper than anything, but fucking no way, he's not dumb here.

He needs a weapon, he needs an _out._ He needs this fucking goon to just pass out and not die because he doesn't want blood on his hands, okay? He doesn't. He can't. But he wants to live, he has to live, and the guy kinda looks like- the guy grasps his wrist with the hand on the arm Andrew couldn't pin. He's got this weird grip, and Andrew looks down and so this old goon, he's got six fingers and that's

that's like

" _Stan_ ," The old man's voice is a rasp, Andrew's weight on his chest making his already labored breathing heave. He's got blood on his ugly old glasses because it's dripping down from Andrew's nose steadily, fat droplets, and Andrew falters, he fucking falters _because_

because

because a blank. Because a big, fucking white _blank._

The hesitation is enough, enough leverage for this guy to flip them, to slam him down, to put a fist through Andrew's skull but he doesn't. He stares up, eyes wide, and there's something in Andrew that's so- that's so _scared_ , like he really fucked up, like he _really fucked up_ and he's _out_ and he can't go back and fuck, fuck, fuck who the flying _fuck_ is Stan?

The guy looks like a sailor, Andrew kind of thinks, looks so fucking old right there but maybe the whack to the head really got him. "Stanley, look at me." So he's not looking at the old guy, he can't because for some reason it hurts and seriously, who the fuck is _Stanley_? He gets this feeling like who the fuck would want to _be_ Stanley, like what a fucking stupid name, right? Imagine a Stanley in Colombia, probably mincemeat before the day is out.

"Stanley, you're safe." The old goon doesn't move a muscle, just speaks quietly, not calmly but soft. He doesn't move, doesn't so much as twitch, not even when Andrew's hand goes to his throat the fucker's just staring up, _staring_ , like this feeling of the worst damn mistake Andrew's ever made. He's _scared._

Andrew swallows, and it's all iron and mucus and a little Pain. "'the fuck is Stanley?"

The old guy looks a little like heartbreak when he says that, and it's all _mistakemistakemistake_ again. "Where am I?" He demands, using the words to skewer the apologies on his tongue. "Who are you? Hell with that, how much are they paying you, huh? Just to bust me out? Y'think I don't know how this goes?"

He doesn't, he _doesn't_ because he's a big fucking white spot named Andrew 'Eight-Ball' Alcatraz who doesn't know a damn thing, but his voice rises like he does. "Whatever I did, shit, whatever I did I can fix it, alright? I can make it up, I can make up the money, just-"

He's _scared_ , maybe definitely with a capital S but he's swallowing, blood and snot, pain and adrenaline and stiff knees. His body doesn't feel right, maybe it never did. He tightens his grip on the guy's throat because he doesn't know what to do, okay, this isn't him, he doesn't think it's him, he just wants it all to slot into place and maybe slow down, maybe just fucking _stop._ He wants the guy to be more scared than he is because maybe that means Stanley has a fucking chance, that maybe

that maybe

that Stanley

The six fingered hand grasping his wrist is tight, the guy below him sounds like he's two unsteady lungfuls away from wheezing. He still doesn't move, doesn't try, like he's _scared_ , like he's scared but of hurting Stanley, like he's scared of hurting him. Like he can't. Like he's waiting.

The snap back isn't satisfying.

"Jesus!" Stan tears himself back, scrambles back, shaking all up and down his arms. Stanford gasps, sucks in air like _Stanley's fucking mistake_ and god, Stan can taste something like flames all blue and bright right down his throat. He can feel some empty rattles in his head shift back into place, having examined the memory, having examined that skin he wore once when he wasn't Stanley. "Jesus, Stanford I- Ford-"

"Remind me-" Ford's breath is more even now, hand grazing his throat. "Remind me not to try grappling with you... with you again. Hell, Stanley, what sixty year old man has that much upper body strength?"

Stan's on his feet, torn between a lot of things, like normalcy and forgetting and _lies_ and shame. His blood is on Ford's glasses and for some reason he can't take it, he just can't so he

so he runs.

"Sorry, I gotta-"

Just like that.

 

\----

 

He spends the next few hours moving from room to room, place to place, avoiding expertly, but mostly remembering what it is to be Stan. It's sort of like... it's like hell, okay, he was getting these pieces back bit by bit and sometimes he thinks he's better off without them. Bad memories, sure, who wants those? But more so who wants that, a man more like an animal, a man choking his own fucking brother on the floor and thinking only about fighting ahead, running ahead, getting away. 

So he's this big hero, right? That's what they say. He remembers it, and it's warm, sometimes nice like pleasant warm but sometimes kind of like burning. It's some role they all keep saying and he's not really sure he always sees it, but he tries. He's gotta be this hero and he's a guy choking his damn brother on the floor.

His nose hurts.

He's thinking a little about how to fix that when Ford finally finds him.

"Go away." He's petulant but it's an attempt, and he's sitting on the hood of his car. Ford's got his arms folded behind him like he usually does, all prim, and his sweater hides his neck, as always, and any incriminating bruises. Stan eyes that neck, Ford eyes him eyeing that neck and his lips thin into a a wry, bordering on humorless smile.

"You should be more worried about my head, really." Because yeah, reminding him of slamming his brother's head in the ground was real good. Stan would say as much if he wasn't busy chewing on his guilt like he can't quite bring himself to swallow it down, and Ford's expression goes chagrined. "I'm fine Stanley, I promise. Faring better than you, certainly."

Stan glances away with all the petulance he can muster as Ford walks over, eying his nose with a frown as Stan eyes the forest, wondering if he could just walk away and maybe Ford wouldn't follow. He would, they both know it, and Stan would want him to so he just, he just pushes it down, swallows. Mucus and an iron tinge.

"You were confused, I suspect something brought that... memory, forefront in your mind. It's a natural reaction to the healing process, no one was-" Stan glares at him, dares him to finish the sentence. A sigh from his nose and Ford does. "-no one was _seriously_ hurt."

He taps the side of Stan's face to make him turn his head just so, his mild frown deepening all the while. Stan feels a little like... he didn't know, a fucking crooked balloon or like someone jammed a piece that didn't fit into the center of his face. Ford's expression is regretful and Stan thinks he might just scream if they get into a whole guilt, apology loop or something, but instead Ford's expression firms as he grasps Stan's wrist.

And tugs. "Let's get you fixed up, I very much doubt you want anyone in the Shack to see you this way." The pause that follows is a little new, a little raw. " _I_ don't want to see you this way."

It's the only reason Stan lets him drag them inside.

When his nose is set and most of Stan's cursing dies out he leans against the kitchen table, slumps, refuses to watch Ford watch him. He doesn't want to talk but he does. He's tired.

"Some hero I am, huh?"

He winces a little because yeah, he can kind of hear his dad rolling his eyes at the melodramatics, and that damn melodrama of a daddy issue just sinks his mood further. He thinks about getting a real funk going on, just letting the table swallow him up and maybe swallow a few glasses of something himself when Ford goes and puts a hand on his wrist again.

It isn't tight this time, panicked or trying to tug him into the house for medical treatment. It's just sort of there, and Stan thinks he kind of likes that, like it's natural and maybe he doesn't remember a lot but gut feelings meant something, right? So with all that maybe he glances over, face feeling a little like prickling and crushed glass but Ford's looking at him steadily, without pity. He remembers hating pity- no, he remembers wanting to hate pity, okay, but pity was well meaning attention and sometimes he was just so _desperate_ for it, from anyone. 

"I hate to break it to you Stan, but having one little episode while you're recovering from traumatic mind-gun induced amnesia doesn't really take away from the whole 'saving our multiverse' thing." Ford's tone is that weird thing where he's kind of dry and kind of serious, like maybe he knows it's a joke but he refuses to let it be, not entirely. It's kind of stupid, so kind of funny, the whole attempt, and Stan breaths out a huff that might have been a laugh at a better time.

"If you call this 'little' I'd like to see where a big episode would get us," Stan huffs out, reaching up to rub his face but stopping when Ford pointedly lowered his arm. Right. "Actually scratch that, I kinda don't. The whole trying to give you a concussion then trying to choke you out thing, tell me how that's not a big damn problem."

"It happens." Ford was always kind of terrible at casual, and really terrible at comforting, but he was trying. In a way that was enough. "Besides, remember that time you tried to wake me up and I punched your lights out?"

"Yeah- okay seriously, what is up with you breaking my nose?" Stan accuses swiftly.

Only for Ford to just as swiftly brush it aside. Mostly. "It wasn't _broken_ , it was just- look, the point is remember what you told me then?"

"It's probably insensitive for you t'keep asking an amnesiac what he remembers."

"You _said_ -" Ford didn't miss a beat in ignoring him. "-that it was already water under the bridge, and, I quote, 'if you let this eat you up I'm going to spit in your coffee, poindexter.' Crude, but you were right. It wasn't my fault, this wasn't your fault, and we just need to learn from it and move ahead."

"Yeah? Learn what exactly? That once I was a crazy asshole who was probably willing to gut a guy to save my own skin?" The words were kind of tight between his teeth, kind of brittle. He misses sweet truths, okay, like Mabel and her scrap book and an endless seeming summer. He misses that, Dipper and Mabel and being a guy who deserves goodbye sweaters, of all things. 

Ford's look is long. "Maybe learning you were someone who worked to survive until today, even against great odds."

"Yeah well, somehow I'm having trouble seeing it that way," Stan mutters, Sinks with a big S, sure, and looks up at Ford sporting this cheesy, small sort of smile.

One that's like 'hey, maybe I got this,' just a quiet uncertainty squashed by resolve. "So let me help convince you."

And Stan thinks you know, maybe that wouldn't be so bad. "Sure, poindexter."

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated and very much for cake, because sometimes shit just fucking sucks for no reason.


End file.
